


Designated Driver

by taylor_tut



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Exhaustion, Fever, Friendship, Gen, Overworking, Sick Character, Sickfic, hawkeye pierce whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 21:04:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17629655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: Just a little drabble from my tumblr for a request for Hawkeye with the flu. It's not great, but it is short. Hawkeye is supposed to drive everyone home from the bar, but he's not feeling well. They think he's trying to get out of a night of debauchery he's not allowed to drink at, but turns out, they're wrong.





	Designated Driver

Allowing himself to be peer-pressured into going to the bar with BJ, Charles, Klinger, and Margaret after a long day of surgery and a post-op shift was not only a bad idea, but entirely his own fault. He wasn’t having any fun and everyone knew it, which was the opposite of his usual image, but right now, it couldn’t be forced: he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to be in bed sleeping. Twice, now, he’d tried to turn in early, but was guilted into being the designated driver (not that the gang strictly adhered to that rule) and getting his piss-drunk friends home, and he wasn’t optimistic about asking again. 

But he did it anyway.

“Beej, are we about done here?” he asked hopefully, shivering in the chair he hadn’t moved from since they arrived at the bar. “I’m cold and exhausted, and I’d really like to be cold and sleeping.”

BJ laughed. “Aw, come on, Hawk; it’s not that bad. Why don’t you have a beer, take the edge off? You’ve been working all day.” The thought turned his stomach.

“Again, no thanks,” he dismissed. “I’m not stressed, I’m TIRED. And sore. And have I mentioned tired?”

“Only ten times in the past hour,” Klinger replied helpfully. “Here, rest,” he offered, patting his shoulder for Hawkeye to rest his head against. Too exhausted to argue, he simply obeyed, sagging into Klinger bonelessly. It felt nice, he thought, to not have to sit quite as upright or use quite as many muscles to be conscious, the same way that closing one’s eyes felt better than keeping them open, even if one remained conscious. It was almost as good as lying down but definitely, achingly not as good. BJ was a softie. 

“If you’re really that miserable, we can leave early,” he offered, sobering slightly, an offer which was met with a chorus of booing. “Don’t be like that,” he chastised the group; sometimes it was so obvious he was a dad. “It’s not fair to choose the tiredest guy to drive us home and you know it.”

“Yes, but Hawkeye is NEVER the driver,” Margaret pointed out. “It’s also not fair that he should get out of it on the ONE night that he’s refraining from the debauchery.” One thing about Margaret, she always knew how to make him feel guilty. 

“I’ll still drive,” he promised. “Have your fun. Just wake me when you’re ready to leave.” He closed his eyes, which meant that he missed the moment that his friends forced themselves to shift from drunk soldiers to trained medical personnel. 

“He’s shaking a bit,” Charles pointed out. His words were slurring but sure. “Perhaps he’s hypoglycemic? When was the last time he’s had a meal?”

“Not hungry,” Hawkeye argued petulantly, burrowing against Klinger’s shoulder, “just freezing. You drunks wouldn't know, but it’s cold tonight.” Klinger shifted under him, forcing him to sit up and support his own weight again, which was exhausting. 

“You’re feelin’ pretty warm, Captain,” he observed. BJ confirmed with a hand to his cheek that he was, indeed, overly warm. Padre had been down last week with some sort of flu bug and they’d been taking bets on who would be the first of the inevitable waterfall of staff to come down with it first, but the thought that it would be Hawkeye hadn’t even crossed BJ’s mind. Pierce was always the last man standing in these lesser plague situations, but it appeared that this was the exception that proved the rule. 

“You’re feverish, Hawk,” he announced, but Hawkeye shook his head. 

“Your hands are just cold from the weather,” he insisted. “Seriously, have your fun. I’m fine.” 

Their definitions of ‘fine,’ every single one of them had been skewed beyond recognition by the war, but with one serious look from BJ, the crew reluctantly began to pack up.

“Let’s just get you to bed,” Margaret suggested, reaching up to feel Hawkeye’s face for herself and frowning at the heat she found. “Father Mulcahy was down for a week with this virus, what are we going to do if we’re down a surgeon for that long?”

Hawkeye waved a hand dismissively, irritably. “You’re not down a surgeon,” he argued. “I’m actually standing right here. I’ll sleep this off.” 

“Right, we’ll see about that,” BJ said skeptically. “Are you good to drive us home?” 

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. “Yes,” he reassured, “and I will be all night, so don’t cut this short just because of me.” Funny, how Hawkeye could be so eager to whine about something, but then as soon as he was the recipient of genuine concern, he didn’t want anything to do with it. 

“We can play cards anywhere, Pierce,” Charles pointed out. “It’s not exceptionally different to finish our game back at the Swamp so that you can rest.” Hawkeye offered a weary smile, and for the first time, it was clear how pale he was. BJ was right, though Charles hated to admit that under any circumstances: Hawkeye didn’t look like he was going to be able to “sleep this off.” 

“You guys are something else,” Hawkeye muttered, halfway between irritated that they were fussing so much and relieve that he could finally go back to bed where he belonged. When he stood, everything in his body hurt, a muscle-deep ache that could most definitely be from long hours in surgery but more than likely wasn’t. 

He got straight into bed as soon as they got back to the camp and the rest of the group played cards quietly in the Swamp, aware that they could just go to the mess but wanting to keep an eye on Hawkeye. Though he’d probably owe them quite a few days of being the designated driver after this, he found that he really didn’t care, not when the idea of sleeping was so appealing. He could worry about everything else tomorrow: for now, no one expected anything from him, so he wanted to enjoy that, because it never lasted long. 


End file.
